


The Space Between

by Jacobi



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brooklyn, Bucky gets involved in organized crime, Domestic, Friends to Lovers, Irish, Jews - Freeform, M/M, Russians, The Mob, back alley bruisers, plot! All the plot!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23209063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacobi/pseuds/Jacobi
Summary: In the space between poverty and riches, in between the crooked places in the head and the heart, between life and death and a boy with blond hair in Brooklyn and another one who looked uncannily like a crime lord, the world caught her breath for a few moments. But then the doors opened and Leroy winked at Angelo and Bucky laughed into the night.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Stucky, prewar!stucky
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	The Space Between

**Author's Note:**

> Heyoooo unedited but a pet project very near and dear to my heart. Bucky as a character is fascinating to me- he often writes his own story for me. Hope you like this one!

Steve stood over Bucky like some sort of demonic grim reaper. The heater hissed and rattled by the wall and did nothing but make more noise than Steve's lungs. Bucky was sleeping in a hat Becca made for him, his sweater, his rain slicker, and his work coat, his expression set in a grim blank even in sleep. Steve had both blankets wrapped around his shoulders and Bucky's other sweater with the cuffs rolled up six times drowning his upper body. 

Bucky cracked an eye open. "Wadya want?" He mumbled. "You cold?" He fumbled with fingers stuff from sleep and the cold with his work coat. It killed Steve in a new way every time, how Bucky would give him the literal shirt off his back if it made the difference. Even if it didn't make the difference. 

"Keep yer clothes on an shove over." Steve threw both blankets over Bucky and tucked himself under them in the space between Bucky's arm and his rib cage. 

Bucky stared at the ceiling until he could see the shadows the peeling wallpaper made in the grey dawn light as the sun fought the freeze. In the paper stand on 6th, he'd see headlines crying about the Coldest Winter Yet. But now, he made sure not to move. He didn't want to wake Steve. More sleep meant a healthier body, and they couldn't take any chances. He blew little rings of breath and watched them form in the bitter air like the exhale of a cigarette. Bucky would kill for a cigarette, but unfortunately the smoke killed Steve's lungs. 

When the shadows moved from one wall to the other, Bucky began to slowly get out of bed without jostling Steve. It was a perfected art. First of all, Bucky was awake enough through the night to know the time by the shift of the shadows and second of all, Steve was horrible to wake up. Downright Tasmanian devil. Bucky always figured that's why Steve fought so much, because he woke up angry. But he looked deceptively peaceful when he slept, despite the worrying purple-blue tint to his lips. Bucky tucked the blankets as snugly as he could around Steve's smaller body and locked the apartment door behind him. He didn't have to get dressed. In winter, they practically slept in their entire closet. 

Bucky pulled his hat farther down over his ears and tried not to look at anybody he passed by. It was a dangerous game when you looked; Beggars or frozen bodies? 

Six streets over and Bucky crossed the divide from the projects to regular old Brooklyn. He avoided staring at his reflection in the darkened store windows as he passed. With his three layers, Bucky looked for all the world like a big, strapping boy. In reality, he was starving. He'd never tell Steve, didn't have to. Steve was starving too. They were both starving and freezing and exhausted. 

But Bucky was tall, and in easier times, he put on muscle and looked for all the world like a diplomat's son. His face held the memory of those times. Of the summer and back when Steve's ma was alive and they were both still in high school and life hadn't taken most things. 

Bucky's ma and his pa lived in Queens now. A nicer part, more forgiving. Owned a cobbler's shop. Honest work. Bucky didn't have time for honest work and he couldn't very well work for his father. Not after...Well, it was a long time coming. It wasn't like Bucky had ever looked that much like his old man in the first place. But it was also a matter of principle. Bucky loved Becca more than maybe anything else in the world, even if he didn't always get what went on in her head. Why she didn't want to marry that guy, who was perfectly nice and perfectly well off, was frankly beyond his understanding. But his father kicking Becca out afterward was beyond Bucky's capability to forgive. 

Becca worked nights as a waitress and enrolled herself in classes at a community college. She lived in a girl's boarding house and cut her hair and truly, Bucky loved that she smiled more. Even when he was so hungry he could cry, he loved that she smiled more. 

Bucky was caught up in wondering about his sister and what in the world he was going to get for two pennies to last the week, and ran right smack into somebody in a nice suit and expensive shoes. Shit. "Mister, I apologize, I am so sorry." Bucky steadied the man and dropped his accent, rounded his vowels. Automatically buffed out the street kid, disappeared into himself. 

The man was surprised to see a young man with tired eyes and a sickly tint to his skin. He flicked his switch blade closed in his pocket and took his hand out to put it on the kid's arm under the guise of steadying him in return. Under the layers, the man felt muscle, but the kid was smaller than he should be, upon second glance, when the eyes didn't have as much of a chance to automatically fill in the frame. 

The man was Leroy McCullough. He ran most of the territory between Dead Horse Bay and Jewelers' row. Shanty Irish who partnered with the son of a big time Italian, opened a liquor business, and kept expanding. With Angelo's way with people and Leroy's crack shot, they really couldn't lose. The police seemed to think so too, and left them pretty much alone. Leroy was a clean killer anyway. Single head shots only, and he never left the bodies in the street. 

Leroy was not exactly known for his compassion or even any sort of charm at all. He was scrappy, scary, got the job done. But he remembered what it was like to be cold and starving and poor and probably Irish- the kid looked a little Irish. Black Irish, with his blue eyes and dark hair and devastating features. Like Leroy, only Leroy's nose had been broken a few times over. He had four dollars in his pocket and he gave them all to the young man. "It's a cold winter." Was his only reasoning behind the exchange.

Bucky was too proud to take the money and too hungry to give it back. He stood in front of the man and neither of them moved. Leroy looked a little harder. "Ain't you the boy that's peddling Jake for Belladonna?" It was a swill from Jamaica that was downright dangerous. But it was cheap as hell and people really wanted to die on any kind of alcohol in winters like these. Good business for lazy half-cracked mobsters. Leroy disdained it. Bucky saw it on his face. 

"Maybe." He said, his vowels flattening and his shoulders settling back, trading submission for a fight. It always ended in a fight. Bucky wasn't stupid. There were only a handful of Irish mixed up with the Italians, and he was on the boarders of Angelo's territory. "But today, I'm off to the docks." 

"Navy Yard? No work there, kid. Never is." 

"Naw, I know it. I mean the dry docks in Dead Horse." The smell of it came back to Bucky like a bad friend. He hated it. Made him want to burn his clothes. But he was so damn cold and so damn hungry and Steve was so damn little. 

Leroy nodded to himself, fiddled with the switch blade in his pocket. He was in a generous mood, maybe he'd give that to the kid, too. "You'd be lucky ta be dead with that on ya." He glanced at the money in the young man's hand. There were discolored marks across his knuckles that Leroy hadn't noticed before. Ah. So that's why you ain't dead yet, then. 

Bucky let a hard smile creep up half his face. "No, sir. Anybody'd be lucky to be dead if they tried ta take it offa me." Once upon a time, in high school, Bucky had been one of the best boxers in Brooklyn. Maybe he even would have gotten a scholarship to college, if that had been a goal. But that was a year ago and today, it was freezing, and Bucky was staring down one of the most dangerous men in New York alone. 

Leroy nodded to himself again, and then continued on his way. It was too damn cold to be talking to a kid who, for whatever reason, was absolutely so down on his luck he was willing to work at the dry docks in Dead Horse Bay. Leroy would know, he ran those docks. Also, that kid looked like something just short of a movie screen. He was a fighter, Leroy could tell by the set of his jaw, and if somebody fed him once in a while, he'd fill out nicely into that gangly frame. Might look nice as a bouncer for a new nighty Angelo wanted to open in the spring. But ach, Leroy shook his head and stepped into a warm shop, there had to be a thousand boys just like him. He wouldn't survive the winter. 

Steve covered a sneeze in the crook of his arm. His sweater was Bucky's other sweater, the same one he had slept in. He knew he looked positively pathetic, drowning in a sweater made for somebody twice his size when clothes in his size already seemed to swallow him. But it was warm and Steve was cold. He shivered his way to the newspaper stand with the sympathetic man who let him look over the help wanted section for free as long as he returned the paper. 

Steve would kill to take any of the jobs looking for typists. Heated rooms, sitting down. He could do that. Except his vision was sort of bad under dodgy lighting and he wasn't a pretty young girl. Nobody needed their store signs touched up over the winter. He'd already done that all summer, and wouldn't be able to do it again until this summer. But at least he had a loyal clientele. Steve couldn't bounce for nighties or haul crates or pretend to run the counters while somebody got killed in the back on Jewelers' row. He asked too many questions and his body would break. 

"Thanks, Ross." Steve carefully returned the paper. There were a few jobs he could check in on today. Nothing too promising though, as per usual. Ross put a gloved hand to his newsie cap and held the thermos of coffee his wife made closer to his chest. 

Ross Rosen was thirty three. His wife, Evie, was the best thing in his life. Evie had her very own ladies' alteration shop in the better part of Brooklyn, and even though men were supposed to hate going in, Ross loved to visit her over his lunch break. Ross didn't like the cold, but he didn't have to fight it to live anymore. He grew up in Hell's Kitchen prying up railroad ties to sell for scrap mettle before he got caught and put in the slammer for a year. With three meals a day and a guaranteed place to sleep for the first time in his life, Ross thrived. Granted, he also knew how to make a shiv from a tooth brush and had a mean right hook. 

When he got out, he hopped a train and moved to Brooklyn. It was easy. All he had was himself. And then: Evie. Beautiful, talented, lovely Evie. Ross got a low level job running papers and the first thing he bought was a full roll of blue spun wool. Expensive as hell. Evie made a beautiful skirt set and wore it to her interview with the landlord who owned the shop for sale on the corner. The landlord wasn't so sure about women and business, but he was more sure he didn't want to be on the wrong side of Evie's man. 

The first thing Evie bought was a night class in public relations for Ross, who dutifully went and scowled at the professor and every single one of his classmates. As it turned out, he started scowling a little less and learned how to land an interview and work a crowd. He moved up the ladder and secured a spot at a newsstand in the morning and worked as a publishing office assistant in the afternoon. It wasn't particularly exciting work, but Ross didn't give two shits. He was the luckiest man alive. He and Evie had been happily married for nearing eleven years and even though the apartment was under his name, they both knew she was the more industrious of the two and brought in more money. Ross liked that. It helped him sleep at night, to know his best gal would do well for herself if he ever was to not be around anymore. 

Since his near death experience of a childhood and his newfound relative security, Ross wasn't so angry at the world anymore. He wasn't so helplessly struggling against life anymore. But the little starving guy with the mop of blond hair and the tired blue eyes- now there was a tragedy just waiting to happen. And not just for him, for his buddy too. Good grief, Ross saw the two of them sometimes, the darker haired one and the little guy. He imagined he could fit a whole village in the space between their ribs. So he let the little guy read the help wanted section every day for free, so long as he didn't take the paper. 

Steve finally got around to the ladies' alteration shop assistant inquiry after being refused with pity from the previous four leads. His blood was hot. Steve couldn't stand pity. Compassion was one thing, but pity was condescending. The noonday sun made the air a little warmer, so his teeth weren't trying to rattle out of his head anymore. 

Evie didn't hear the exchange, because she was inside chalking a pattern with Patty, but she saw it through the windows. A boy in a sweater ten time too big was pushing open the door at the same time she saw her husband crossing the street. A group of boys bored on winter break and too much money crossed the street too. Evie's biggest sadness in life was that people did not truly know her husband. He was a kind man, at his core. Funny and vibrant and intensely loyal. Her biggest fear also happened to be that people did not truly know her husband. She was not afraid for him, per say, more so those that figured he wouldn't fight back. 

Ross did not swing on the young man and his cronies who suddenly showered him with pennies, jeering antisemitism at him right in the middle of the street, because that little blond kid who always smoothed the wrinkles out of the paper he borrowed shouted "Hey!", and it startled him. It startled the other boys too, because Steve was able to demand an apology on behalf of Ross and that they pick up the pennies before any of them got a word in edgewise. 

"Ah, why don't you pick 'em up, screwball. You sure look like you need 'em." 

Steve stepped into the street and looked up at clean shaves and starched collars that had been through a great deal to be made wrinkled. That really killed him, thinking of mothers dutifully starching collars so their sons would look nice, only for those very sons to go and undo all of that to look cool. "Fuck you. Maybe I do. Don't change the fact I still didn't hear an apology." 

"Who the hell are you, runt?" 

"Are you deaf? Apologize." 

Ross collard the surprisingly volatile (and a little crazy?) kid. "Not worth your time or mine." He muttered. He knew Evie could see it all, and so could her friend and fellow seamstress Patty. No use getting the ladies worked up when all he came for was lunch. Not a fight. 

"Yeah, go ahead and walk away. Kike." One of the boys spit. The next thing he spit was blood, courtesy of Ross's fist. He used his right hand. Didn't want to mess up his wedding ring. 

"Get the hell outta here 'fore I kill the lotta ya." Ross unbuttoned the first few buttons of his collar and yanked down his undershirt. The boys were definitely upper-crust, but the old tattoo crawling down his chest and around his neck was recognizable to anyone. They scattered. Ross straightened his shirt, re buttoned his collar, and adjusted the lapels of his coat before turning and walking back toward the shop. Steve was still standing in the street. Ross reached back and yanked him indoors before he got any bright ideas like following them.

Evie and Patty pretended they had seen nothing, to spare everyone's pride involved. Evie could not give the little blond boy the job, and it broke her heart a little bit. The thing was, she specialized in ladies' wear, and he was not a lady. It would have been too improper. Ross gave her a glance in a way only he could after the boy left. "Ya know, he's around seventeen?" 

Evie's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "Surely not." She disagreed. 

"Surely yes. An' dear, I don' think you'd have needed to worry 'bout him takin a peak, if ya catch me." Ross took a quick bite of his roast beef sandwich. He had the same one every day, his favorite. 

"What makes you say that?" Evie asked sharply, looking around out of reflex. It was the kind of talk that went on in their house. Of course it was. Ross happened to be Evie's favorite person to gossip with. But this was her establishment. Luckily, the only other person was Patty, and she was far used to Ross's loose tongue around his wife. Ross shrugged. 

"Just sayin, is all. But I forgot to say, I loves ya in that color." He winked. He said that every day with every color. And it was true every time. 

Steve scrounged up a few dimes by redoing the chalkboard for the month outside the butcher's. He gave it right back for a ham hock on layaway. He could see it in his head already, him telling Bucky to run by and see if he could get any liver. It was a favorite thing of Steve's to do, and Bucky always fell for it. The Butcher would say, 'Barnes, don't leave without this.' And Bucky would inevitably and eloquently say, 'huh?' Before being gifted with the ham hock, which he'd then run all the way back to the apartment to show Steve. Small pleasures in the space between starvation and survival. 

The temperature was dropping steadily as the evening approached, the sun giving up early. Steve headed toward Dead Horse Bay so Bucky wouldn't have to add insult to injury and walk home alone in the dark after a day in the stink and swill. Angelo swore in amazement and Leroy glanced up in question. "Remember that crazy kid who picked a fight with Henry's boys two summers ago? Death on two legs? Hadda be bailed out by the bigger guy off a silver screen?" 

Leroy did not, but said "Sure," anyway. 

Angelo whistled lowly. "Well somehow he's still alive." He watched from the warmth of his fake jewelry store as another figure joined the blond kid. Same dark hair. Figures, Angelo nodded. The other guy was the kid's somehow. Had to be. He went back to packing flasks filled with liquor all the way from Louisiana into straw filled crates. 

A real winter coat for Steve was two dollars, and Bucky couldn't do that. He wanted to, though. He really, really wanted to. But then they really wouldn't make rent this month and they had the chance to pay off all the interest and be back on schedule. He gave the three dollars to the landlord with a sick feeling in his stomach, thinking all the while of a good meal and a good coat. Bucky pulled shifts at Dead Horse all week. 

He and Steve fell into a familiar routine. Steve would search fruitlessly for a job that would be suited for a 90 pound asthmatic and then cut down to Bucky's direction. Bucky would throw up from the smell finally overwhelming him before he saw Steve, and then pretend everything was fine. He had two dollars by the end of the week and a sweater that smelled like rotting trash, unlucky horses for which the bay was named, and fish slop. 

The coat was much too nice. Steve couldn't possibly accept it. But it was also Christmas and they had a roof over his head and the coat was just the right size. Enough room to layer without drowning him. It had a flannel lining. "How much?" Steve had to ask, already slipping it on. Jesus and Mary, he couldn't keep this. But he loved it. 

"A run-in with Leroy of Jewelers' Row and a week of Dead Horse." Bucky was in an exceedingly good mood, preening in Steve's obvious appreciation, and so Steve couldn't tell wether or not Bucky was joking. 

I can't keep this, Steve thought guiltily. It's the heat bill, the lights, the rent. Instead, he marveled, "The size is perfect." 

"Sure," Bucky grinned. "Your silhouette is burned into my eyes, practically." 

Steve has a sudden image of Bucky holding up coats and squinting, eyeballing the size right in the middle of the store. It made his chest tight, like he was going to cry or something. He didn't. Instead, he said, "Thank you." Instead, he gave Bucky his Christmas present.

Bucky carefully undid the newspaper covering it and help it up. "Ah, you're a Prince! These are my favorites! Just what I wanted!" 

Steve hit his knee. "Open the box, punk." 

Bucky paused, the sweet taste of an orange slice still resting pleasantly on his tongue. "Hey, Steve?" 

"What? It ain't that pony you keep asking me for, so don't get too excited yet." 

"Never mind." Bucky said. I love you, his heart thought. His hands opened the box.

New work boots. There was a scuff on the toe. So, used work boots, but still. There was a real sole, not cardboard. The heel wasn't peeling off like Bucky's. The laces weren't rotted and fraying. "Jesus." Bucky said. And then, because he had to, "How much?" 

"None of your goddamn business. Open the card too. Heathen." Steve chewed on a smile and reveled in the warmth of his coat. Bucky kept every single on of the cards Steve drew him. He wouldn't hear of store bought ones. 

Bucky went to sleep with two ounces of self respect and a warm feeling in his chest. It was a dangerous thing, for James Barnes to go to bed with confidence. It meant he'd wake up with it too, and then he'd carry himself with an old swagger and youthfulness that fit him so much better than starvation. It meant he'd hold the world at his feet. 

Leroy felt a hand on his shoulder and had his knife against the flesh of a throat without a second thought. Except he turned and met air, the person ducking down and appearing behind him. Leroy threw a punch, but it barley connected, and threw him more off balance than it should have. What the hell? "Please don't take it personally mister, I spent half my life fighting." A voice drawled to his left. Leroy lunged again, missed again. 

"Fuck you," He growled, "so have I." He pulled his sawed off revolver, the only thing that never failed him, and finally caught the man in his sights. Leroy was surprised again to see the starving kid he'd given four dollars two the week previous. Except he looked better. Not fed, he was still gaunt, but better. There was life behind his grey green eyes. 

Bucky held up his hands more calmly than he felt. Maybe it was the new-old boots. "No harm, just listen 'fore ya pop my head off." 

Leroy kept the gun trained between the young man's eyes, but didn't pull the trigger. He didn't say anything either. 

"I ain't runnin Jake now and I ain't workin at Dead Horse. I can't. It'll kill me. But I fill out if I got food, I'm a helluva good hitter, I don't kiss and tell. Lemme have a job." Bucky looked Leroy in the eye. "Please." He added belatedly. 

"What makes you think you wouldn't die just as soon workin fer me?" Leroy lowered his gun to Bucky's foot. 

Bucky flashed a smile. Leroy vaguely thought that a kid in his position should not have been given such straight teeth and dimples. "Ah, I'll die young anyway." 

Leroy did an impulsive thing. He was not usually impulsive. Not anymore, now that he had stability. But he hired the kid on the spot and brought him to the shop for a meal. Angelo raised his eyebrow at the newcomer. Leroy pulled him aside. 

"Plan is, we feed him a few square meals, he'll fill into that six feet and whatever he is. Perfect bouncer." 

Angelo shrugged, his usually impassive face a surprising neutral. "I don't give a shit, sure. I think I had 'im on at Dead Horse awhile. Good worker. He doesn't talk." 

Bucky took home half of his food for Steve and told him he was bussing for a café. They both knew he was lying. In another world, maybe Steve would have cared. But it was Brooklyn and them against the world, and so he didn't. "Neat job," He said instead. "So when are ya gonna learn how to kill a guy with a bat?" 

Bucky looked at Steve and pinched a piece off the the chicken cutlet for himself. "You're a little shit, Rogers. Anyway, I been knowing how to do that." 

"Workin in 'cafés' awhile then, I see." Steve snorted, but he wasn't mad. He just...was. It was just the way things were. He couldn't get a job and Bucky ran in with bad people for good money and that was the way things were. 

Steve went to visit Becca on a Saturday afternoon, because Bucky was working and Becca's place had heat, and Steve knew he wasn't going to land a job. Becca was always happy to see him, and so were the other girls on her hall. They all thought Bucky was something fine to look at, but Steve was meaner and didn't try to charm their socks off at every turn. It was refreshing. Also, he'd draw them beautifully for free. The matron of the boarding house knew the type of boy Bucky was: tragic. She could feel him in her bones a mile off and would make him sit in the kitchen when he came to visit Becca. She always let Steve up without a second glance, though. And not just because he was sort of a runt. Madame Owenbee liked that he didn't talk much. Liked that he always asked if she needed any help cleaning the kitchen anyway. 

Saturday afternoon wasn't often filled with any college classes or shifts at the factories, so nearly all the girls were on the hall unless they had dates. Several of them said hello to Steve as he climbed the stairs to Becca's floor. Becca was in her room, putting red laquer polish on her nails, four other girls sprawled on her bed and around her room. Like Bucky, she commanded a crowd. Steve figured it was because they both looked so good on the outside and had just enough talk, and then on the inside they really did have hearts of gold. Bucky figured it was because he and Becca grew up conning their richer relatives out of their life savings so they could go to the fair or a baseball game. When you learn how to work a room early, it never really leaves you. 

"Steve!" Becca smiled a smile often on Bucky's face. It quickly turned into a worried frown. "You look freezing!" 

"Just my cold, dead heart. Mind if I add to the company?" Steve asked, subtly eyeing the working radiator. 

"You know I don't. Gertie, shove over so Steve can sit near the radiator and thaw out. You shouldn't be walking all the way in weather like this with your lungs." She fixed Steve with a mothering glare. Steve rolled his eyes and sat next to a a girl with light brown braids. The heat felt good against his spine. 

"I get enougha that from yer brother. Let offa me." He shot back good naturedly. Steve looked around the room. He recognized Liza, Becca's roommate, and Helen, a girl from down the hall. Gertie was new and so was another girl, who had paint stains on her T-shirt. 

"How is Bucky?" Helen asked. Liza snorted. "She means, is he still single?" 

"Heinous as always and yeah, but Helen, I gotta say, you could do better." Steve shook his head. It was true. Most girls could do better than Bucky, and he would tell them that himself. 

Helen made a face. "Oh, I know. But just imagine: I get Becca as a sister in law, and the best looking guy in Brooklyn." Steve laughed along with the girls. He couldn't argue with that.

Angelo closed a crate and slid it across the floor to Leroy's new recruit, who picked it up easier than he should have and took it down to the basement, appearing back on the ground floor in a flash. "Yer fast." Angelo remarked. He hated an awkward silence, even though with the way this kid moved, he was anything but awkward. Thin though, Angelo could still take him out. 

"I got a buddy...he's fast into trouble." He said. What was his name? James? There was another name too, but Angelo remembered writing James in the pay log. 

"We'd get along just as quick, then. You as serious as Leroy?" Before he knew it, Angelo was ready to give half the world to James. He was more of a talker than Leroy, every good business pairing had to have a few opposites, but he didn't usually continue conversation with the workers. Unless they were true members of the organization, in which case they were as good as family. All the rest, the contracted satellite boys, they were mostly criminals with strong backs and mean smiles. James's smile was not mean. 

"Steve is everything good," Bucky found himself confessing to one of his new employers. "Everything I'm not. He's tough, he's mean as hell. He's kind, too." 

"An yer not?" 

"No, never." Bucky laughed softly at himself. "I'm much too inclined to pipe dreams and silver linings. I ain't a realist. I'd flat fly off if Steve didn't bring me back to earth. Anyway, I'd die for him. I wouldn't die for my pa, but I'd die for Steve Rogers." 

"Steve Rogers..." Angelo tasted the name in his mouth. He remembered writing that name down in the pay log, too. It was one of his talents. Angelo had an excellent memory when it came to money, no debt went unpaid. "Waita second, I know! Very little blond kid, he paints signs for money. There's a bigger dark haired fella looks after 'im. That's you." 

"That's him and that's me." Bucky confirmed. 

"He picked a fight with Henry's boys awhile back." 

Bucky's movements stilled ever so slightly. He automatically rounded out his vowels. "I'm sorry for the things he does, his blood just runs hot. He doesn't mean it." 

Angelo read the imperceivable tension and smirked to himself. "Pity. I'd hoped he had meant it. Henry's a liar an a crook an my brother to boot." 

"Sounds like a complicated family." The tension dropped from Bucky's shoulders. 

"Yours ain't?" 

"Never said that." Bucky said quietly. Angelo read the subtext in that, too. Business was always good for Leroy and Angelo, with Angelo's skill in reading people and Leroy's skill in killing people. 

"That why you ain't on a movie screen somewhere, growin into yerself big like ya should be?" 

Bucky's smile was just this side of painful. "Ah, I couldn't do that anyway. Truth is, I can't stand big crowds." He evaded elaborating on his family situation. Leroy crashed into the shop and eyed the lack of liquor bottles and crates. 

"That was fast." He remarked. "Was gonna come heckle you about bein too slow." 

"Well I got good company. You take the life right outta me, so's I gotta move slower with you around." Angelo shot back. 

"Ah, fuck you. I hate you." 

"Shoot me then." 

"I might. You hungry?" Leroy kicked his chin in Bucky's direction. Bucky shrugged. Leroy turned his attention back to Angelo. "Yer starvin 'im, probably talkin his ear off. You ain't never had any taste of poverty, Angelo. Show a little sympathy." 

"I-" Angelo stood and started to defend himself. 

"I ain't a pushover." Bucky interrupted, locking eyes with Leroy. Leroy couldn't decide if it was a good quality. On one hand, the kid was brave as hell. On the other, who knew if he'd follow orders very well. "Just 'cause I'm flat broke don't mean I'm flat stupid." 

Angelo thought that maybe Leroy was going to shoot James. He was impressed with the way James didn't look away. "No." Leroy said finally. "I suppose you aren't." He looked at Bucky a little longer, something unreadable behind his eyes. Bucky looked back. He needed the job. Leroy disappeared into the basement and Angelo ordered one of the boys outside to run for a coffee and sandwiches from the deli on fifth. 

"Leroy's shanty Irish." Angelo began, breaking the quiet. "He gets strange sometimes, picks a guy to look out for. Psychological head case. He likes to look out for me, 'cept he's right, I wouldn't know poverty even if it hit me in tha face." 

Bucky looked at his feet in their new-old boots. "Funny thing is, it's just mettle and paper. It's just the space between livin and dyin." 

"You a poet?" Angelo started packing the crate again. Bucky looked up and locked eyes with the Italian, who for a moment recognized Leroy's eyes in a slightly different face. It was uncanny. 

"Told you," The face broke into a grin and erased all similarities it held with Leroy. "I'm a dreamer." 

It got warmer and Bucky filled out. So did Steve, with the half portions Bucky brought home for him. They survived the winter. Bucky's skin tanned at the first hint of sun. Steve's burnt. They laughed more. Bucky, against all odds, continued to hold his job, and started being trained in back alley security. He took to it quickly. It wasn't much different from street fighting. 

"Our boy's a genetic freak." Peter, the Russian, remarked to Leroy, Bucky just out of earshot. "Puts on muscle immediately when given a bite to eat." 

Leroy watched the much healthier young man pick up a ball that rolled to his feet and throw it back with ease to the pack of boys on the other side of the street. Bucky was a freak in general, Leroy secretly thought. He was good with kids and good with breaking bones. Duplicitous, yet loyal. Sleek and shiny and rough and tumble. Absolutely strange. 

Somehow, Steve and Bucky scraped together enough money to move to a better apartment. One without so many drafts and pipes that didn't drip. It was dingy as usual, sure, but the door actually locked without a chair under the knob. There was a mirror by the door and a kitchen sink that didn't run rusty water. It was no longer "the apartment". It was something closer to "home". 

Bucky carefully combed his hair back in the mirror, his bow tie hanging undone and his suspenders not yet up. Steve drew him like this. It was his favorite version of Bucky, sitting in the space between work and weekend. Steve stretched out his fingers and inspected the dot of dried blood on the end of his index finger. Evie Rosen ended up giving him that job after Christmas. It wasn't much, but he didn't actually mind the little things, like learning to sew, even if he did still prick himself every other stitch. 

"Look okay?" Bucky turned around. Steve gave him his patented look-down, making sure all the buttons were buttoned and his shoes were tied. 

"Well, you've looked worse." 

"Jerk. It's my first night on the job. I'm nervous." 

"Don't be. Want me to do your tie?" 

"Yeah." 

Steve stood and crossed over to where Bucky was standing. He carefully pulled the ends into a smart bow, one that wasn't too tight. When Bucky tied it himself, he always erred on the side of too loose. Steve had it down to an art. If two fingers could fit between the tie and Bucky's throat, it was too loose. One finger and it was too tight. Steve pulled up Bucky's suspenders and smoothed them out so they weren't twisted. He didn't have to, but he liked to. Nice things for Bucky. "There." He said. "Don't be nervous." 

"Heard you the first time." 

Steve pushed on Bucky's chest, surprised and relieved to find muscle again instead of the sharp edge of a bone. "Can't always be sure, ya got that awful selective hearing, pal." 

"You're confusing me with yourself again. See you later." Bucky flashed a smile before he pulled the door shut behind him. 

"I like boys." Steve said to the closed door. Because he could. Because this was home now. He picked up his sketch book and started shading in Bucky's hair. The door swung back open and Steve startled. Bucky stuck his head in. 

"What'd ya call after me?" 

"I like boys." Steve blurted. And then, "Shit, I mean. I. Christ, can you forget that?" 

Bucky's face had a funny look on it. "Sure. Just-" Steve braced himself. Just what? Just go to church? Just you can't live with me anymore? Just die? "Just lock the door behind me, will ya? You'll give me gray hairs." 

Steve blinked. "Did you hear what I said?" 

"Yeah, but Steve, I'm gonna be late. Lock the door." And then Bucky closed the door behind him again. Steve locked it. 

"You know you're not actually going into the club, right? You're just watching the door?" Peter raised both of his thick, dark eyebrows when he saw Bucky coming toward him. Bucky held out his hands and did an honest to god spin. 

"What? Don't like my get up?" 

"Jesus, kid. You ain't..." Peter was at a lost for words. "Just...most of the time, intimidation is more the route people go for in a job such as yours." 

Bucky rolled up his sleeves and took his post by the door. "I'm plenty intimidating if I need to be. Think of it this way, I clean up well, more clientele attracted to the club." 

"You crazy bastard, the gals that come in here won't look twice at you, anyway. It's a homosexual club." Peter shifted, slightly uncomfortable. Bucky was making him uncomfortable. He was frankly intimidating. A boy with no money should not look that good. 

"I clean up well." Bucky repeated. Peter mumbled something about checking on the liquor and nearly ran into the empty club. What he really wanted to say was, I know you do. I'm looking right at you. And maybe, if you weren't so hard to figure out, if you didn't hit so hard, I'd kiss you for your trouble. 

Angelo walked by and saw Peter with his head against the wall of the hallway and his eyes closed. He actually looked his age for once, when he wasn't glaring. Only a few years older than Leroy's project who was supposed to be there any second. "Hey, you seen James anywhere?" 

Peter snapped his eyes open. "Oh, yeah," He said easily. "He's been here awhile, already standing outside." 

Angelo nodded. "And you're okay?" 

"Me? Oh. Yes. Yeah, I'm fine." 

"You sure?" 

Peter fixed Angelo with a look, and aged before Angelo's eyes. "I'm fine. We open in five?" 

"Ten. I'll let James know." Angelo walked away, shaking his head to clear it of the strange interaction. He ran into Leroy smoking a cigarette, a calm look on his face. He was wearing a bow tie, not too tight, and suspenders over a dark shirt tucked into black pants. Danger and dashing all in one. Angelo looked because he could. Leroy tilted his head just so because he could. Funny thing about the business, so many unsaid things. 

Angelo went outside and saw Leroy again, only younger and lankier and in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. There was already a line. Excellent. "Doors open soon," He called to James, and then turned on his heel and went right back to Leroy. "You didn't tell me you had a son." 

Leroy sighed around his cigarette. "It isn't certain. I liked you better when you were lookin at me and not talkin." 

"He looks just like you." 

"You think?" There was a hint of vulnerability in Leroy's voice. 

Angelo plucked the cigarette from between Leroy's teeth and put it in his own mouth. "Sure. But I spend a lotta time lookin at you." He winked, chasing the rare smile playing on Leroy's lips. Leroy knocked his shoulder and took his cigarette back. 

"Fuck you." He said, his favorite response. There was never any heat behind it when it was directed toward Angelo. Things said and never said. Subtext. Leroy knew Angelo was good at reading it. "Ready to make some quick cash?" 

Peter was behind the bar when the doors opened. The space filled instantly. Pretty boys and pretty girls but none of them like the bouncer. Shit. He'd have to get over that one. He taught the kid how to do his job, anyway. It was unprofessional. "Hello," A voice said. "Can I have a Long Island iced tea?" Peter turned and shit, his imagination was really getting out of control because this girl could have been Bucky's twin. He pushed it down with a practiced easy smile. 

"Sure thing, and for the other lady?" 

Girl Bucky turned to a young woman with light brown hair and intelligent eyes. "Want anything, Gertie?" 

The other girl, Gertie, put her hand between Girl Bucky's shoulder blades. It must be nice, Peter thought. To have somebody. It must be nice. But then again, he had his job and his brothers in the business so it wasn't a bad life. Just a little lonely. "You have any lemonade? I'm the designated sober tonight." She laughed. Peter had to smile. He slid both drinks over. 

"On the house." He winked. 

Angelo had to fire or repurpose the other two bouncers as the club steadily grew in prominence, thriving off the underground and payed police blindness. The patrons kept asking after the other young man, the one with the dark hair and clear laugh. Business was actually lost when James wasn't on the rotation. Eye candy, Peter scoffed in explanation. But it worked. Bucky was hired full time. 

Peter bought him a black dress shirt and dropped it unceremoniously into Bucky's lap one day over lunch on Jewelers' row. "You look like you're on your way to church in white." Was his only explanation. Leroy had to switch to wearing white shirts and no bow tie. He was probably paranoid. Most black Irish looked alike in one way or the other, but he didn't want to give anyone any ideas. 

"Church boy." Angelo snickered every time he passed Leroy, who answered with a scowl. 

"You think my sister likes girls the same way you like boys?" Bucky asked Steve one Sunday, as casually as anything. Steve thought Bucky had forgotten about his slip-up a month ago. Clearly not. Although he was handling it remarkably well, taking it in stride. 

"Honestly Buck? She's hard to get a read on. You both are." 

"Yeah. Well that club I bounce for is that kinda club and she comes in sometimes and says hello every time. I can't tell if she's trying to get under my skin or not." 

Steve glanced down at Bucky from the couch, who was sprawled on his back throwing a ball up in the air and catching it just before it hit his face. "It's Becca, she's definitely trying to get under your skin." They laughed. 

Peter saw Bucky walking with the blond boy, who he knew by now to be Steve. In another time, he could have found it within himself to muster some jealousy. But instead, like seeing girl Bucky with Gertie, it just made him a little wistful. He and Bucky had become friends, in a quiet sort of way. Bucky could become friends with anybody, really. Peter was lucky enough to be anybody. "Do you have a sister?" He asked one night, when he and Bucky were closing. Really, it was one morning. 

"Sure do. She looks just like me, except she's smarter." Bucky laughed. His bow tie was hanging loose around his neck and his shirt was unbuttoned, showing his white undershirt underneath. 

"Yeah, you know, she really does. I give her free drinks sometimes." 

Bucky laughed again. "Don't you fall under her spell." 

"It's easy. Both of you. It's easy." 

Bucky's eyebrows quirked. Innocent, Peter thought. Endearingly so. "I know you know how to take care of yourself. So I won't tell you to." Peter said. Bucky kept looking at him. 

"Sometimes," Bucky looked at his hands, "I need a reminder." Peter looked at Bucky's hands too. At the discolored marks across his knuckles. Old scars from old fights. Peter had plenty of his own scars, but long and clean. From knives. He took Bucky's hands in his own and waited for Bucky to hit him. Bucky didn't. His heart was too busy getting stuck in his throat. 

"How old are you, Bucky?" Peter asked. Bucky had a few inches and, now, a few pounds on him. But he was younger in a way Peter couldn't put his finger on. 

"I'll be 18 next December." 

"So say you're 17." 

"I'll say what I want." Bucky shot back. "I'm 17." He conceded. "But sometimes I feel like I'm fifty and five in the same day. It's because...cause I'm scared. All the time. And bein scared all the time makes time move strangely."

Peter was twenty one, but he felt a decade older than the boy who's hands were in his. They shouldn't be doing this. Peter should have called it off, shouldn't have grabbed Bucky's hands in the first place. But Peter knew it wasn't going to happen, and somewhere along the line a shift had been made. His heart no longer wanted a companion, just wanted a better way for Bucky than Peter had. He felt the strength in Bucky's fingers, the stories behind the rough spots. "It's a scary world to live in, for people like us." Peter began carefully. "Who have hearts like we do and work for money that's not always clean. I have killed men in Russia and I will kill men here. Violence sits well on your shoulders, well like it sits on mine. But at the end of the day, you can take care of yourself. You're a screwball sometimes, but if I had money left over to gamble, I'd put it on you." 

Bucky ducked his head and some of his hair fell forward, shading his eyes. "Peter I- I don't even really know who I am. I don't even know...maybe I'm not like you. Maybe I am. I'm not entirely sure what that means." He confessed. 

Peter chuckled and let go of Bucky's hands, gave him a strong pat on the shoulder. "James Barnes, I like fellas and I like gals and you're so young I wanna tell you to go someplace else, only you clean up real nice an' I know you need the money." 

"How old are you?" Bucky asked, telling his heart to calm the hell down with the flutter kicks already. Bucky liked to know facts. He wasn't good at subtleties most of the time, and this may be the only time he'd figure a few things out. 

Peter went back to wiping down the counter. "Entirely too old for you." Peter winked. He was in a good mood, or maybe, Bucky thought, he'd already outed himself and had nothing to lose now. 

"I won't seek you out or anything." Bucky wanted Peter to know. 

"Ah, Bucky, I know. You aren't that kinda guy." 

"Do I look... like that? I mean, do I dress...I'm not very good at knowing what things mean." Bucky wasn't making sense, but Peter understood. 

"Nah. You don't walk around with feathers in your hair, you just clean up real nice is all. You know that. Eye candy for everybody. You're hard to get a read on anyway, Bucky Barnes. I'm just a little bit drunk and you seemed like a good enough person to dump my shit on." 

"I thought the best bartenders didn't drink." Bucky crossed his arms skeptically. 

Peter glance back at him as he returned the glasses to the shelves above the liquor. "Well I never said I was a very good bartender, did I?" Bucky snorted. "But anyway I'm off the job and it's my own vodka. Want any?" 

"No thanks. I say crazy stuff when I drink that kinda mess." Bucky shook his head. Peter shrugged as if to say 'your loss'. 

Bucky and Steve sat on the fire escape without shirts, letting their feet dangle down in the heat. "This guy I work with, he says he likes guys and gals." 

Steve would never get used to Bucky casually dropping things like that into conversation. But on second thought, maybe he was trying to show Steve he didn't care. Overcompensating for it, maybe, but Bucky never half assed things. "Is it Peter?" Steve knew their names by now, from the amount of times he'd met Bucky to walk back home, which was, coincidently, closer to the new club than the old apartment. 

Bucky looked at Steve thoughtfully. "How'd you know? You know what, forget I asked. I think I'm just thick in the head." Steve hit Bucky's arm lightly. 

"No," He disagreed. "You just see people for the sum of their parts, and you're quicker to say friend than fairy." 

"Don't make me out to be any sorta noble character here, 'cause I ain't." 

"Good. Neither am I." Steve coughed against the humidity and Bucky deftly lit the end of one of Steve's asthma cigarettes. They were laced with something illegal probably. Both of them knew that, because it made more than Steve's lungs relax, and Bucky wouldn't let him smoke them inside, because the fumes made Bucky's tongue looser than he liked. But today, it was hot, and Bucky wasn't working until later, and Steve had the day off. 

"Christ." Steve lay back on the tarpaper covering the rough grating of the fire escape floor. "It's gotta be reefer, of an exponential amount." 

"An how the hell would you know?" 

"Cause I'm in the art community, dumbass. Here, take a drag, maybe you'll leave me alone for once." 

Bucky figured what the hell, and so he did. Took a couple of drags. Ended up smoking half of it with Steve responsible for the other half, trading it between them until they were both stoned and the heat suddenly didn't seem all that bad. "Pal, you've got it made. A legalized blunt issued from the hospital to you. You could start a ring, make some cash." 

"Why the hell would I do that when you're already working in shady places? I'll stick to my sewing." 

"Steve...Stevie, I am absolutely gone. I cannot go to work. I'm fuckin toasted." Bucky drawled, dancing his fingers against the sunlight. It was mesmerizing. 

"Ain't it great?" Steve smiled. Nothing hurt anymore and everything was pretty and he could breath. "Work is tonight anyway." 

"Yeah. Maybe I won't go. I got this great idea, I think I'm gonna be a pilot." Bucky decided, continuing to fly his hand over imaginary wind currents. Steve honest to god giggled. 

"You can't be a pilot, Jamie. You're afraid of heights!" 

"I like that, when you call me Jamie. Even though I won't ever say." Bucky fell down to his back next to Steve and looked up at the blue summer sky. 

"I know. That's why I don't say it so much. I wouldn't be a very good friend if I said Jamie every time I wanted something." 

"I'd give you everything you wanted and more. I'll give it to you now. Anything you need, I'll find a way." Bucky promised. 

Steve looked over at Bucky and had to look away. "Ah, jeeze." 

"What?" 

"You're so fuckin ugly. I forgot." 

Bucky cackled, messy and undone. And god, Steve thought, but Bucky was beautiful. It was everything about him. He was so much a man with strong features and clumsy hands. But he had a delicate heart and he was a pretty crier, which Steve thought was unfair. Overall, Bucky was beautiful to be around. There were boys that Steve would've loved to jump their bones, but Bucky, he just wanted to be around. 

The summer made Steve a little crazier than usual. Maybe it was the surplus of reefer and whatever else asthma cigarettes or the fact that his joints didn't ache so much, or perhaps a combination thereof. He got into more fights out of boredom and idleness than anything. Evie's shop was part time and the added job security only increased Steve's feeling of invincibility while providing him with full days to get into all sorts of trouble. 

Bucky kept jimmying his leg under the table and he and Leroy stacked receipts. Surprising to everybody but Bucky, the young man was a wiz at math. They didn't know the years spent calculating every cent of expenses to pass the time. Leroy was good at math too, if only because he had to be. Angelo had always known money, and he got lazy in his comfort. So, they compromised. Leroy -and recently, Bucky- handled finances and Angelo did everything else involving people since people usually ran when they saw Leroy walking their way. 

Leroy fixed Bucky with a disparaging look. "Yer screwin my concentration with that leg, Barnes." Bucky dashed out quick numbers and finished calculating four more receipts in the second it took him to acknowledge Leroy. A tiny part of Leroy was jealous at the kid's ease in calculation, and it escalated to general annoyance with the leg jigging. 

"Sorry." The leg stopped and the table remained still. Then, not but five minutes later, it started up again. 

"Oh, for the love of- I gotta take a break!" Leroy threw his pencil down and stormed out to take a breather. He couldn't kill somebody over nervous energy. But it would be so damn easy. Bucky darted his eyes around and then, when he thought nobody was watching, raked in Leroy's unfinished receipts and started calculating them. It was easy enough, and he really was sorry. Or, he really did need the job. Either way, it wasn't that much more work. 

Peter quit his liquor inventory and flipped Leroy's unoccupied chair, straddling it and hating himself for it. Bucky was 17. Peter should drop the issue, should cut off the caring. "What gives?" He forced through his teeth. Bucky was practically shaking out of his skin, twirling his hair, and nearly oblivious to everything around him. The math couldn't be that immersing. 

"My buddy's got a day off today and he was in a mood this morning. Got this feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I need to check all the alleyways. Right now." Bucky moved on to the next stack of receipts. 

"You sure?" Peter couldn't believe he was about to do this. 

Bucky looked up, young eyes. Scared eyes. I'm so afraid. All the time, I'm so scared. He'd said that night. "I've never been wrong." 

Peter stood. "I need to stretch my legs anyway, I'll give some allies a check. Don't shake yourself outta your skeleton." He pushed at the back of Bucky's head on the way out. Leroy was smoking outside of the shop. 

"I fuckin hate that kid." 

"Oh, sure. But he's the type you grow to love." Peter replied. Leroy, despite himself, cracked a thin smile. He watched Peter walk away and marked the distinct moment when his stroll turned predatory. He was on the hunt for something. 

Angelo had recruited Peter from prison. He was maybe the same age as Bucky was now, an American mother and a Russian father and Russian citizenship. But he was in an American prison because he'd killed a few people in Russia and skipped the country on a ship before getting slammed by the police for another murder. Angelo got a tip off from the Bratva, who didn't like Peter's style but felt obligated to at least put him in contact with somebody else in America. Peter was tricky, because he was wicked with knives and he could track a person days on end. Very independent mentality. 

But Angelo eventually won everybody over, and Peter came into the fold. A debt collector nobody could shake. He walked away from Leroy like he was collecting a debt, only Leroy knew for a fact everybody was up on their payments for liquor and otherwise. His annoyance shifted to curiosity. 

Peter had always been good at finding things. When he was younger, he tracked rich merchants through cities and the country side. He was patient and the payoff was large. His father was on again off again with the Bratva and his mother was American, he was told. His father disappeared and Peter found him, too, dead in a gutter two towns over. He killed the man that killed his father, and then two others who came after him for killing the man. He hopped a ship to America with only a vague idea that his mother was supposedly American and he spoke a little bit of the language. 

Peter accidentally got in the way of a small time crime lord when he reached land, except Peter killed that man, too. Only difference was, a police officer saw him do it. And then, there was Angelo. Truly, Peter liked doing the work he did. It wasn't clean. He wouldn't ever have a family, but then again, he wouldn't have anyway. He was good at it, he was good at finding people, he was good with knives, and on his down time, he enjoyed disappearing behind a bar and observing people. 

It was not particularly challenging to find Bucky's Steve, which was a little disappointing. The little blond kid was getting his ass kicked in an alley behind a bakery and for some reason was continuing to fight back instead of lying down. Stupid, Peter thought, they're looking for a fight, if you don't give it to them, they'll leave. But then, he realized Steve could just as equally be the type of person always looking for a fight, even though he was so little and looked liable to keel over and die. Peter hauled the bigger boy off of Steve and sent him spinning off into the wall of the bakery with the force. 

"Get outta here," Peter pulled one of his knives, a thin, deadly sharp job, and showed it to the bigger boy, who promptly ran. 

"I can take care 'a myself." Steve grumbled thickly behind Peter. "Go get a life." 

Peter turned and pulled a different knife on Steve. Big, serrated. "Don't wanna hear it, you hurt?" 

Steve eyed the knife. "Dunno, you plannin on carvin me up? I advise against it, I ain't very much meat." 

Peter rolled his eyes and pocket the knife, offering a grand up instead. Steve didn't take it and insisted on getting up his own. When he took too long, Peter dragged him to his feet by the back of his shirt. "Good grief, didn't know we had a time crunch." Peter continued to drag him out into the street, Steve all the while wiping away blood and straightening himself out on the fly. When Steve finally got his feet under him, he took the time to see who was frog marching him down the street and away from a good, blood pumping fight. 

"Christ, Peter, Bucky put you up to this?" 

Peter let go of Steve, but kept a hand guiding him along between his shoulder blades. He couldn't explain it, just a feeling that Steve was the type to bolt. "No. Yeah. He looked sick. You make him sick." Steve's face dropped and closed off and Peter wanted to take it back. "I mean, he just gets worried about you, and he knows somehow when things ain't right with you." 

"Peter, wait," Steve stopped and checked his reflection in the glass display of a hat shop. "I can't- don't take me to him right now. He'll kill me." 

Peter pushed them into a walk again. "Steve, I don't know you, and I don't know Bucky a whole helluva lot better, but I know you ain't stupid, so I know you know he won't kill ya. That kid flat can't live without you." 

Steve kicked at an uneven cobble stone. "Well, Peter, guy who likes guys and gals," Peter's heart only stopped for a few seconds at those words out loud. "You've got it flipped, it's me who can't flat live without him." 

"Jesus, you are mean. I don't like you very much, if you want to know the truth." Peter made a face. He had been expecting a little bit of sweetness. A little crack in Steve's exterior. Sort of like how Bucky hit so hard but always threw the ball back to the boys who played in the street. So far, Steve was just a smart ass who seemed to enjoy flaying people's hearts open in the daylight. 

"You like Bucky alright?" Steve didn't confirm or deny Peter's statement. 

"Yeah, I like Bucky alright." 

"Good." 

"Sure." 

"He's really...if you're patient, he's very nice. Not like me, I mean he's really nice." 

Peter glanced at Steve, who now had his hands in his pockets. "What happens if I'm patient with you?" 

Half a grin walked up the side of Steve's face. "I'll draw a nice picture for you. Maybe. Depends on my mood." 

They stopped in front of the shop with the strategically tinted windows. Peter saw first hand what happened when people were patient with Steve, or at least what happened when you were Bucky with Steve. All the nervous energy sloughed off of Bucky and Steve got softer, fonder. Peter understood: Steve and Bucky were best friends. The love was already there, but Steve loved Bucky liked he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. 

Bucky saw Peter accidentally touch the girl's hand when he gave her his drink. She was lanky in a way that people would not describe as pretty, her hair was not sleek, her eyes were not any type of memorable color. Peter thought she was a knockout. It hit him right in the chest. He touched her hand and he wanted to get to know her. All girls were pretty, really, but this girl, she had the most delicate hands. Bucky saw Peter look at his own hands, scarred and calloused, and shake his head. Bucky left his backup in charge of the door and weaved through the crowd before he lost sight of the girl. 

"Excuse me, miss," He had to reach over two boys to tap her on the shoulder and ignored the way they both looked at him, like they could take the shirt off his back with their eyes, ignored that maybe he didn't mind it. "I was wondering if you like boys too." 

She gave him a funny look. "You've got some nerve, Bucky Barnes. We all know your reputation." 

"Oh, not me. I was wondering because the man behind the bar likes guys and gals and he wouldn't ever ask on his own accord." 

Bucky slapped a piece of paper on Peter's bar, startling him. "Her name is Tatiana. Call her."

Bucky didn't hang around after closing. He shrugged on his jacket, said goodbye to Peter, and walked home under the grey light of dawn. He and Steve had a couch now, and Bucky dropped wearily onto it after lazily climbing the four flights of stairs to their floor. He would have liked to have an apartment closer to ground level to save Steve's lungs, but at the same time it was safer to be farther from the ground floor. He folded over and let his chest rest on his thighs, pulling at his shoe laces with one hand and tucking the other hand between his chest and his legs. It was a surprisingly comfortable position. Bucky closed his eyes.

Steve walked into the main living space, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with the heel of his hand. He squinted. Bucky was folded in half and sleeping with one shoe untied, one arm tucked in and the other dangling to the floor like an automaton that had suddenly powered down. Steve sat down next to Bucky and rubbed his back to wake him up. "Let's get yer shoes off 'fore ya go to sleep, okay?" 

"'Kay." Bucky mumbled. He sat up and stretched his arms above his head, yawning so big Steve imagined he could see all of Bucky's strangely straight chiclet teeth. Bucky glanced over and huffed a laugh, reaching over to push his hand through Steve's hair. "Yer dead on yer feet, pal, g'on back to bed." 

Instead of answering, Steve tucked his legs up on the couch and fell sideways, using the meat of Bucky's thigh as a pillow. It was sturdy and warm, like the man himself. Bucky put a hand on Steve's shoulder so he wouldn't get jostled too much as Bucky kicked off his shoes and undid his bow tie. "Alright, Steve Rogers, let's go to bed 'till the sun really comes up, huh?" Bucky proposed, mostly to himself. Steve was easy enough to carry back to his bed. Bucky liked that he was heavier, it meant he was healthier. 

Bucky had the morning completely off and Steve had the full day. Neither of them slept in long past sunrise. It was too much written into their DNA to rise before dawn. Life still wasn't easier, but it was more bearable than the days of the winter and the years of the apartment with the doors that swung open in the middle of the night. "Whaddya wanna do? Let's do something today." Steve stretched out on his new-old mattress that wasn't as lumpy and felt better in his crooked back. Sure, there was that suspicious rust-red stain in the middle, but not when they turned it over. 

Bucky ran both hands over his face and then through his hair. He could feel stubble coming in. He needed to shave. "What do I wanna do?" He repeated aloud, stalling to think. Steve liked Bucky on summer mornings the best. He was sharp and quick and slick at night, in his prime, high off of life. But in the morning, he was rough-voiced and smiling. Mostly. "Love you, I guess." 

Steve snorted. "You're a regular riot act, shall I ring up Coney Island, see if they've got any cages to put you in?" 

Bucky rolled to his side and propped his head up on his fist, blinking his long eyelashes. "Good money, I bet. Gawk at the Gay." 

Steve stared at the ceiling. "Wait- time out. Are you?" 

"Am I what?" 

"Don't be a tool. Is this you tellin me you're gay?" 

"No. I dunno. What I am, I mean, I dunno. Just wanted to hear myself say it, see what it sounded like." 

"Oh." Steve said. There was nothing else to say. "Okay." 

"Lemme ask you a question." 

"Sure." Steve waited, still staring at the ceiling. There were two cracks, like spider webs, barely visible in the eggshell white paint. Bucky looked at Steve looking at the ceiling. 

"Do you think I'm hard to get a read on?" 

Steve turned his head and offered a smile. "Ah, Buck, yer impossible to get a read on, only because it's hard to recognize goodness outright." 

"I ain't a saint." 

"Good, 'cause I ain't plannin on prayin to ya anytime soon." Steve shot back. Bucky laughed, full and loud. 

"Maybe it'll get me killed one day, but Steve, I really think yer funny as hell. Could be yer just bein mean, but I think you could be the funniest guy I know." 

Steve rolled his eyes and laughed quietly in his chest, which turned into a cough. "Yer just plain crazy. Crazy enough that I could probably live with you forever." 

"Ain't that what we're doin anyway? I couldn't stand a roommate that didn't nearly die every winter. It'd put the joy back in the holiday season." 

"Ah, fuck you. Anyway, wanna go to Coney Island and get ice cream or somethin? Or Central Park? Jerry'd give us a ride in his milk truck up town, I bet. He owes me." 

Bucky day up and swung his legs to the floor. Steve followed suit and coughed at the change in position. "I don't like that cough a' yours. What the hell does Jerry owe you for?" 

"Pity, it loves you. Owes me for lookin s'good, that's what for." Really, Jerry owed Steve because Steve saw him hit the row of mailboxes on second street when he was backing up, but neither of them said a word about it. They rode with their legs hanging out the back, jostling over every dip in the road, and Steve coughing at any and every speck of dust. Bucky wordlessly handed him his handkerchief. 

They got hotdogs and ice cream for a nickel and feasted at the edge of the pier. "Go on the Cyclone with me." Steve goaded. 

"That a roller coaster?" Bucky played dumb. He knew full well what it was, had been fascinated with anything remotely related to science, and knew how every ride worked just because. "You even tall enough for that?" 

"I'm five foot four, idiot. Yeah, I'm tall enough. C'mon, it's the fastest here!" 

Bucky bit into his ice cream instead of licking it and got a brain freeze. He screwed his eyes shut. He was an adrenaline junkie if there ever was one, except for one tiny thing: once he was at the top, he always remembered his crippling fear of heights. "How high is it?" 

"Not very." Steve lied. They both knew it. Their conversations regarding which rides to go on usually amounted to as much. Steve was also an adrenaline junkie, but he had horrible motion sickness. Both of them always conveniently forgot these limitations before every ride they went on, multiple times throughout the day. It was part of the experience to hurl hotdogs after coming off the adrenaline high, which they both did. 

"I fuckin hate you," Bucky wretched. 

"Likewise," Steve gasped, still visibly green. "Wanna go on the tower of terror next?" 

"Hell yeah." Bucky agreed easily. 

Sometimes, Steve wondered how many rides it would take to turn Bucky upside down enough to say 'I fuckin love you'. But riding back in Jerry's truck with the bumps jostling their bodies together every few seconds was almost better. 

"How's Tatiana?" Bucky asked before opening on Thursday. Peter pretended not to know what he was talking about until Bucky put him into a headlock that proved to be surprisingly difficult to get out of. Peter tapped on his forearm to get him to let up. 

"Stop eating, kid. I liked it better when I could throw you." 

Bucky shrugged. "You still can. So, how is she? You call her?" 

Peter chewed a smile. "Tatiana is...a dream." 

Bucky leaned back against the bar and kicked his legs out, crossed at the ankles. "Ya don't say, so you slept with 'er?" 

Peter shook his head and unlocked his tip box. "No, I didn't. Not that it's any of your business." He watched as Bucky flipped his collar up and knotted his bow tie. "Tell ya what, whoever you end up with is a lucky bastard. You look so damn good gettin squared away it's obscene." 

Bucky made a face and flipped his collar back down. "Whoever I end up with?" He questioned. His tie was too loose. He flipped his collar up again and redid it. Then it was too tight. He had to do it again. How'd Steve test it again? One finger or something? 

"Yeah, I can't quite tell which way you swing, if you do at all- need help with that, kid?" 

"Nah, thanks. I'll get it in a second. Little outta touch, got too used to Steve doin it." Bucky laughed at himself and glanced at Peter. "I got this weird thing about it bein too tight one way or too loose the other." As he was talking, he got it perfectly and smiled, pleased. His flipped his collar back down for the final time and unscrewed his tin of pomade, pulling his comb from his pocket. 

Peter rolled his eyes. "Sure, pal, just use my recently cleaned bar as yer beauty parlor." And then, because he was a little curious, he remarked, "Quite the routine ya got." 

Bucky shrugged, holding his hair back in place with the palm of one hand and dragging the pomade through it with his comb. "All my life, it's been the way I look that makes people take so well to me. I grew into my limbs in high school and then after, people'd still give me a second glance. It's how I got jobs, so we -me an Steve, I mean- could survive. Also," He quit looking at his reflection in the glass wall behind Peter and winked at him. "I like to go dancing on Saturday nights when I got the money, and good dancers go with good lookin guys." 

Peter shook his head again. "Worst part about you, Barnes, is that I know you're probably the best dancer in Brooklyn." 

Bucky held up two fingers. "Second best." 

"Oh yeah? Who's the first?" 

"Gertie Jackson. My sister's...well, guess they go together sometimes. They go to college together anyhow and live in the same boardinghouse. Gertie's a helluva great date, though. In another time? I'd marry her." 

"Why not this time?" 

Bucky straightened his cuffs and made sure the back of his shirt was tucked in. "Oh, y'know. Bad enough my sister's smarter 'n I am, wouldn't wanna set myself up for her to take my potential wife out from under me, too." It was because Bucky had Steve and Gertie might not like boys, but mostly because Bucky had Steve. He didn't say it though. He left to stand outside until the doors opened.

On Saturday night, the air changed. Peter had his back to the floor, selecting a bottle, but he could feel it. He turned around to see Bucky Barnes in the middle of the dance floor with the girl his sister came with some times, the Barnes sister standing off to the side with her arms crossed and a bemused look on her face. Peter almost wished it was an exaggeration to say everybody had stopped dancing to watch Bucky and the girl on his arm. "Christ." Peter muttered. 

"Dunno if I believe in Jesus, but if God made a fella like that, count me a believer." The young man ordering the drink slipped Peter a bill and knocked back the glass with a wink. 

Bucky came crashing into the apartment around four in the morning. "You smell like-" Steve stopped. He wanted to say, you smell like cheap liquor and polish and perfume and sex. You haven't danced on Saturday nights since you got the job and I forgot how happy it made you. Bucky waited, looking at Steve expectantly to finish the sentence, halfway into the apartment and halfway out. 

"You comin in or what, goof?" Steve outlined Bucky's shoulders in two quick swoops, traced the lines of his neck, the wrinkles in his shirt. 

Bucky grinned like a wolf and stepped all the way inside, swinging the door shut and locking it behind him. "Sorry, sorry, m' a little drunk." 

"No kidding." Steve deadpanned. Bucky threw himself down on the couch beside Steve and put his head in Steve's lap, trying to see what he was drawing. Steve put his sketch pad out of reach on the table. "The hell do ya want?" He raised an eyebrow, looking down at a face that absolutely had to be one of God's best creations. It must be the eyelashes, Steve thought, or the Cupid's bow lips. He shifted, jostling Bucky's head so there wasn't so much pressure between his legs. 

"Just wanna look at ya, that a crime?" 

"Depends on yer reasoning." Bucky could hear the carefulness in Steve's voice- and how had he never noticed it before? 

"Why're ya nervous, Stevie?" 

Steve let one hand drop to card through Bucky's hair, watched Bucky's eyelids fall at the touch. "You really wanna know?" 

"I really wanna kiss you is what I really wanna do." Bucky replied. Steve paused. He laughed a little. 

"Jamie," He looked down at the boy in his lap. "That would be a horrible thing." 

"Actually, I've been highly reviewed on my kissing." Bucky opened one eye, grinning up at baby blue. 

"An you wouldn't remember it in the morning, but I would, I'd remember it for the rest of my life, never be able to find anybody that kissed like you." Steve frowned. 

"Hold yer horses, I haven't kissed you yet. And I'm not that drunk. Just a little." Bucky held up his thumb and index finger to show Steve how little he was drunk, and then rested the back of his hand on Steve's cheek. Steve huffed, tickling Bucky's wrist with hot air. Bucky licked his lips. "All I'm sayin is, I could make you feel so good." 

Steve sort of hated this version of Bucky, because he was soft and sleek all at the same time. It was Bucky at night after bootlegged beer. And he made a compelling case. "Not a good idea, Buck." 

"So get yer hand outta my hair if ya think I'm such a bad idea." Steve didn't. 

"Don't tell me what to do, jerk." 

"Quit sendin me mixed signals, punk." Bucky turned his head and mouthed over the crotch of Steve's pants, one of his strong hands coming to settle gently on a narrow waist. 

"Ah-Fuck. You." Steve covered his face with his hands, feeling his knees drop open. "That ain't fair!" 

"Tell me to stop." Bucky drew himself up and pried Steve's hands away from his face. "'Cause I'll stop when you say so, an I won't be cut up about it. Like you said, I probably won't remember this in the morning." 

Steve knew the way Bucky looked when he was flat drunk. Bucky's eyes looked suspiciously sober. "Why're you doin this?" He asked. Bucky rested his forehead on Steve's. 

"'Cause I keep waitin to stop lovin on you, an my heart don't seem to wanna stop anytime soon." And what was Steve supposed to say to that? How could he argue when the same words made up his blood. It was almost eighteen years of life between the two of them, sixteen years of knowing each other, a hundred years of loving from afar. Bucky knew his way around bodies, knew shortcuts to feeling good. He read the want and slid his hand between Steve's legs, pressed his lips to Steve's temple. 

Contrary to what the whole block probably thought, Steve Rogers wasn't a virgin. But he was a little touch starved. Bucky, on the other hand, was something else entirely. Sex didn't bother him. Maybe one or two winters he sort of might have used it to pay the rent because his face was pretty and even though he was a skeleton, it was easy to imagine what he could look like- but that was besides the point. 

Bucky was hard to figure out, hard to get a read on. He was careful and responsible and impulsive and reckless and kind and had a mean left hook and more all at the same time. Touching Bucky- being touched by Bucky- was no different, Steve thought. All those points of contact that dictated their day (shoulder brushes and hand touches and tie tying and hair combing) wouldn't ever be the same. 

"Yer hard to get a read on, James Barnes," Steve breathed over Cupid's bow. Bucky chuckle ran all the way down his chest. 

"No, I ain't sweetheart," Bucky framed Steve's face with his hands. "I'm just good lookin an I don't kiss an tell. Same with my sister." Steve couldn't argue with that. 

Peter looked at Bucky when he came in. There was something different. He was missing the worry line above his eyebrow. Peter crossed his arms. "You get laid?" 

"Actually," Bucky reached over the bar and grabbed a few peanuts. "No." He threw them into his mouth. "Better." 

"Oh?" Peter quirked an eyebrow. "What's better than getting laid?" 

"Getting loved." Bucky started walking toward the doors. Peter shook his head. 

"You're full a shit, Barnes!" He called after Bucky. The grin he got in return was worth it. Oh, it was so worth it. Peter didn't smile, but his face didn't feel as heavy. 

In the space between poverty and riches, in between the crooked places in the head and the heart, between life and death and a boy with blond hair in Brooklyn and another one who looked uncannily like a crime lord, the world caught her breath for a few moments. But then the doors opened and Leroy winked at Angelo and Bucky laughed into the night.


End file.
